Moment of True Feeling by Peter Handke

Author:Peter Handke [Handke, Peter]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Fiction, Literary
ISBN: 9781466806955
Google: 16w_GgKOD-4C
Amazon: B006ZMRAZK
Barnesnoble: B006ZMRAZK
Publisher: Macmillan
Published: 1977-06-01T04:00:00+00:00

Washed and dressed again, Keuschnig asked the writer to go for a walk with him. The women had disappeared into the back room, and could no longer be heard. “As we crossed the Pont Mirabeau on our way here this evening,” said the writer, “the Seine was perfectly calm. Not a ripple.” “I’ve had enough water for today,” said Keuschnig. “Let’s go to Passy, along the railroad. I feel like walking, just walking straight ahead. I can’t do anything else any more.”

In silence they walked down the boulevard. Nearly all the windows in the tallish houses were dark, and a good many of the shutters had been let down, where people had gone on vacation. Only some of the little attic windows were still lit. What with the boulevard and the railroad cut beside it, the space between the rows of houses was so wide that the sound of their footsteps echoed back from the far side. There were no other walkers. A man and a woman were sitting in a car drawn up at the curb, but they were only looking into space. The sky was full of night clouds tinged with yellow city light, and stars could be seen in the openings between them. The breeze was so faint that only the leaves at the end of a branch or twig stirred. In the light of the street lamps behind them the branches had the look of hard black tracery, in and out of which leaves, that seemed illumined from within, played a game of light and shadow. One had to prick up one’s ears to hear the movement of the leaves; no rustling, only a soft, almost eerie breathing. Here and there among the green leaves a lone withered leaf whispered audibly. Looking out of the corners of his eyes at the slowly shifting foliage, Keuschnig suddenly saw knots of animals thrusting forward and drawing back. A black beetle fell brittly to the ground. The sidewalk was awash with fresh dog piss … Though watching nothing, Keuschnig sensed that nothing escaped him. He stood still and felt the breeze only as cool air on his temples.

As they were passing the RUE DE L‘ASSOMPTION, he remembered the Café de la Paix and the woman he had arranged to meet there the evening of the next day. He sat down on a bench, from which one could look down the long, dark, yet because of its name gratuitously promising rue de l’Assomption. He hadn’t wished for a sign, but now unintentionally he had EXPERIENCED one. Did he need it?

The writer sat down beside him, spreading himself so wide that he almost pushed Keuschnig off the bench. After a while he said: “All of a sudden I feel like seeing Hitchcock’s Vertigo again, that Spanish church tower with the crape-framed blue sky behind it—right this minute! The editors of some anthology have asked me how I felt about prayer, which is apparently being rediscovered. Have you ever prayed?” Keuschnig was going to say something in answer, but only exhaled.

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